


Leave a Note

by watsonsjumper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Hurt Sherlock, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, John Watson Thinks Sherlock Holmes is Dead, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Please Don't Hate Me, Poor John, Post-Reichenbach, Sad John, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, how do tag, john is VERY SAD, slight case fic, very sad pls do not kill me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:00:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonsjumper/pseuds/watsonsjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John finds himself alone after Sherlock's death, nothing can save him from caving in on himself. The one thing that could save him is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave a Note

"Leave a note when?" Johns voice cracks and he doesn't know whats real anymore. Sherlock takes a breath, a deep long inhale. He never seemed so far away than right now. The pause feels like a million years. Like he has been waiting since the beginning of time for an answer he didn't really want to hear.

"Goodbye John." John certainly was not prepared for what came next. Sherlock threw the phone aside and waits for a few seconds, as if expecting something to happen. John doesn't care. He starts sprinting towards St Bart's from his place on the street. He screams "Sherlock" until he cant breath and is at the rooftop of the hospital.

He gets there just in time to see his best friend step off the ledge as if he were going to fly away.

John collapses, breathing heavily and thinking his eyes must be betraying him. He gets up, knees wobbling and stumbling towards the stone ledge of the building. John sees Sherlock laying completely still on the pavement below. Nobody on the street stops or even looks in the direction of the fallen man. Tears stream down John Watson's face, burning warmly.

He stands shakily, looking at his friend below. Everything blurs in his field of vision. The world seems surreal. John steps onto the ledge.

"Sherlock...Sherlock...I'm....I'm coming." Watson steps off the ledge just as Sherlock had done.

He closes his eyes just as he lands next to Sherlock Holmes, ending his pain.

-

The former army doctor awakes on the floor of his bedroom, sweating and panting with a red, tear stained face. These dreams happen every night. Each time, he dreams of his best friend and the suicide he never expected. He wipes his face of the wetness on his white t-shirt. He gets up and sits on the bed with his head in his hands. John sighs and rubs his eyes, trying to get the image of Sherlock laying on the pavement out of his mind.

He stands and goes to the bathroom down the hall, trying not to look in Sherlock's untouched room.

Once in the bathroom, he washes his face and tries to calm his heartbeat. He undresses and gets in the shower, putting the water as hot as it can possibly go. It burns at first, but he soon becomes numb to the pain. He leaned against the cold tiles on the wall, running his hands through his hair and closing his eyes.

-

The man who once stood beside the worlds smartest and only consulting detective stares at himself in the foggy mirror. Part of him wishes he was dead and really did die like the dream. The other part wishes Sherlock will come back to him. But of course, he never will. He knows. That's the part that hurts him the most.

John steps into the hall, traveling to Sherlock's room. He sits on the bed and smells the sheets, which still smell of Sherlock Holmes (mint and antiseptic) even after John has repeated this many times before. He lays down and lets the smell overcome him, enveloping his body. He misses the detective so much it brings him pain.

After a while, John reluctantly lifts himself off the bed and goes to the kitchen. He makes a cup of tea and sits down in the cluttered living room facing Sherlock's chair. He sees Sherlock, legs folded underneath him, eyes closed and hands pressed together under his chin. Blood covers his face, making a dark crimson layer, as if it were a protective shell. John closes his eyes as tightly as he can. His throat closed off and he couldn't breathe.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Sherlock." The Sherlock in the chair says nothing.

"Please stop this. Please. I'm so sorry. I wish I could help you. Please tell me how I can help you." He opened his eyes. Sherlock was gone.

-

"I'm going to the store, do you need anything?" Mrs. Hudson chirps.

"No, thanks," John said quietly. He smiled at her and without another word, she left, muttering to herself.

The flat had become dirty and cluttered over the last 6 months. After Sherlock died, there were left over cases and papers that John had no idea where to put. He never moved them. A layer of dust coated the desk and the papers.

Mrs. Hudson complained every day that it was chaotic and John should "clean up this mess" before she does it herself. But John never lets her touch them, nor does he touch them himself.

Except today, those papers and the clutter mock him.

John starts cleaning. He gathers all the papers and case files that he has neglected. He puts them next to Sherlock's computer (it is now his but he has looked through it and the case files and the documents saved on it seemed to preserve Sherlock's memory, so John bought his own.

He dusts the mantle piece and the skull, careful not to drop Sherlock's old "friend". He looks at the violin that lays on the music stand. He doesn't touch it. He makes sure to never touch this part of Sherlock. It is the one thing that was left alone by the police and reporters that flocked through the door. He has thought about putting it in the case, but he looks at it and sees Sherlock. Not dead, bloody, hollow eyed Sherlock, but the one he loved.

The consulting detective. The brilliant, ridiculous man. The friend. John's best friend.

He looks at the instrument once more and wipes the tears that have came out.

"Stop," he tells himself. John feels like there's a hole he's trying to fill without losing himself.

"Stop it. Hes gone." But deep down, he believes somehow, Sherlock survived. It's buried, but he hopes. He had little hope, but knowing Sherlock, he survived. 

-

It's about 8:30 at night when John finally stops cleaning. Of course, he broke down a few times, but he got the flat cleaned and organized.

Lestrade texts him at 9 asking John to meet him at the pub. John puts on his coat and reluctantly leaves 221B.

"John!" Greg calls from across the street. John gives him a fake smile. He'd rather be looking at the photos him and Sherlock took the day they went on vacation to Scotland. Well, it was more of a case but they happened to make it a sort of vacation. He took one amazing photo when Sherlock wasn't expecting it. He got the shot of his detective smiling and laughing, truly happy and beautiful. He got a few of Sherlock thinking. Sherlock yelling. Him and Sherlock. In the one with both of them, Sherlock had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, though John didn't notice until Sherlock died. John looked so happy then. He was just happy to be there with Sherlock. He wishes he could have it all back.

"John? You alright mate?" Lestrade startles John out of his thoughts.

"Hmm? Nothing. Let's go inside." he turn and walked inside the pub, the low beat thumping to the rhythm of his heart. He sits down at the counter. "Two beers." he says to the bartender.

"So what have you been doing?" Greg asks.

"Cleaning." John says absently.

"Have you been writing your blog lately?" But John just sighs.

"Why would I?"

"....oh. I don't know..? Cleaning?" Lestrade chuckles, trying to make light of the question he should have never asked. The bartender slides down their beers and nods at John. John had never been much of a drinker until Sherlock died. But the people at the pub had become familiar with him.

They had a few drinks and left the pub, Lestrade slurring his words and John numb.

"Alright J-John. See you sometime. If you want you can come to the..the..the Yard and help. We could always use a hand."

"Okay thanks."

"See you around." And with that, John and Greg went their separate ways.

-

John doesn't go home though. The numbness of the drinks he had compels him to see an old friend. He hails a cab.

Almost there. His breathing is shallow and his chest feels so tight it might collapse.

The cab finally stops and he throws a few pounds at the driver. He gets out and doubles over, trying to catch his breath because he is breathing like he just ran 5 miles straight. He finally calms down and forces himself to walk towards the cemetery.

John stops in front of a headstone that is all too familiar.

"Hello Sherlock."

John gets on his knees and rests his head on the headstone. Even though he knows Sherlock will never feel or see or hear any of this.

"I keep telling myself you're coming back. Because when I first met you, nothing was impossible. I believed you would come back for six months. And I still do. Nothing will ever convince me that you weren't a brilliant man with a brilliant mind. And I....I miss it. I miss you." Tears stream slowly down his face but John keeps talking.

"You remember that first day don't you? I was so alone. You showed me I didn't have to be alone. I know. 'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.' But I don't believe that you were ever truly alone with me. I don't know how it was before, but Sherlock, friends protect you. I was supposed to protect you. And I couldn't do it. What kind of friend does that make me?"

John hears a rustle of leaves. The wind.

"Now I'm alone again. Why is it that the people I love get taken from me. I know it sounds cheesy but Sherlock, I was so in love with you. I-" John stops himself.

"I love you, Sherlock." he whispers. The wind blows again, carrying the words away. The leaves move, louder this time.

"I really did. And I still do. Even if I never said it when you were alive. I think you knew it though. Of course you did. You're Sherlock."

"I still wonder if you ever felt the same way. Maybe you did. You did so much for me. You dropped everything to save me. Just like the first day we met, I killed someone to save you. I had to. Something just told me I had to save you. And you returned the favor so many times. I'm so grateful for that. But now...I wish you were here with me. The flat is lonely without you. I miss you shouting you're bored at 3 in the morning. I miss you shooting the smiley face on the wall and Mrs. Hudson yelling at you. I miss not having milk and you putting body parts in the fridge. I miss you destroying the kitchen with experiments and you dragging me out to work on a case with you. I miss you telling Anderson and Sally off. I miss you not sleeping for days on end and not eating unless I make you. I miss Mycroft popping in to make sure you're okay, even though he says it's for 'business matters'. I miss the clients that you proved wrong and the cases you solved in 5 minutes or less. I miss your coat and your scarf and your ridiculous disguises. I miss your face. I miss you." He sobs and practically hugs the cold stone.

John stops crying.

"I know it's insane. I'm insane. But I really do miss you. I miss everything about you to be honest. I could name everything I miss about you but that would take all the stars in the universe. Its funny that you never thought to look up at the sky and learn about the solar system. I think it's because the world was moving so fast around you, you never got a chance to look up."

"I need you back, Sherlock. I'm so lonely. I hope to god, whatever happened to you, that you're okay." John sat on the ground, leaning his back against Sherlock's headstone.

-

John enters 221B with a headache. He goes straight to his bedroom and changes his clothes and climbs into bed. He hopes the dreams won't plague him tonight.

At about 2:00 in the morning, Johns sleep is disturbed. He doesn't know what it was, but he knows he's not dreaming this time. He hears a loud thump, probably a repeat of what woke him up. He travels to the living room, investigating the noise. He grabs his gun and makes sure it's loaded and ready to fire. When he gets there, there appears to be nobody there, but the door of the flat is flung wide open. He raises his gun and checks the whole room cautiously.

"You have 10 seconds to reveal yourself before I call the police. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev-" but Johns counting is interrupted.

"John..." a voice rasps. John doesn't recognize the voice.

"Hello?"

"Help me...down here..." it says. John looks down and sees a figure laying on the floor of the landing just outside the flat. He couldn't see his face, but he had a long, slender body and dark hair.

John helps the man up and sets him on the couch.

"John?!" The stranger claws John as if he is attempting to stay alive by holding John. Suddenly, the man goes still. John checks his pulse. Still alive. His breathing is shallow. John gets up and turns the light on so he can see the intruders face.

What he sees almost stops his heart. 

John backs away.

"No... It can't be you. You're not real."

He hesitantly reaches out and touches the intruder's face.

Sherlock Holmes is laying in front of him. His cheekbones are covered in scratches and blood. John stokes his hair, trying to assure himself that the man before him is real. He lets out a sob. He cries into Sherlock's coat. He soon feels a long, slender hand stroke his hair comfortingly.

"John..." But all John can do is sob harder. "John I know but please remove yourself from my ribs? I think they may be broken." Sherlock rasps. John reluctantly lifts his tear stained face to see Sherlock. By now, he would have left. Is it really him?

"Sherlock?" He stutters out between deep breaths and sobs.

"I'm here John. I'm so sorry. I'm here. I'm not going to leave you."

But Sherlock spoke too soon. He goes into a coughing fit, making blood leak from his mouth. John panics.

"Sherlock?! Keep your eyes open. Stay with me. Keep you eyes fixed on me." John feels tears flowing steadily down his face. He's trying to be strong for Sherlock, but he can't even be strong for himself.

Sherlock's eyes close and his body goes limp. The only person he could think of that would not completely have a fit or a heart attack was Lestrade. He soon found himself dialing his number with shaking fingers.

"John, you better have a bloody good reason to be calling me at 2 in the morning." Lestrade moaned sleepily.

"It's him. It's him! He's back. Please." John sobbed.

"Who's back? Jesus, John. Where are you?"

"Baker Street!" He cries.

"I'm coming now. Calm down. I'll be there soon."

"Sherlock." John whispers, but before he says it Lestrade is already off the phone.

John looks back at Sherlock and touches his cheek.

"It'll be okay. We'll be okay Sherlock. Please stay with me." He sobs.

About 10 minutes later, Lestrade's car pulls up in front of 221B. He barges into the flat.

"John? What the hell-" but he sees Sherlock on the couch with John crying and his head in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock is wounded and broken. "Jesus. Oh my God. It's him."

"Help me. He needs a hospital. Nobody can know he's alive. I'm sure he would have come back if he could."

"But why would he keep it from us? Especially you?"

"I don't know. We need to help him before he..." But John can't say the word. The mere thought of it makes him sick.

"Right. Don't want him dying for real on us..." But he stops himself when John sniffles and wipes his eyes.

-

They called Molly beforehand (she often spent late nights there, working in the lab) and made sure they had a private place where no photographers or paparazzi could see. They also made sure the doctor would not reveal his return to anyone.

Sherlock was treated for broken ribs, a punctured lung, and two gunshots to the leg and shoulder. The doctor was astonished that he still had the energy to climb up the stairs and into the flat.

"He has incredible strength. The fact that he could even talk with a punctured lung and broken ribs is amazing. You've got yourself a fighter."

"Yes he is." John says.

Sherlock looked so peaceful when he was laying in the hospital bed. Even though he was wearing a hospital gown (which he would probably complain about when he woke up), he looks so beautiful to John.

He just wanted to stay with Sherlock. He doesn't eat. He doesn't sleep. He rarely talks, except to tell the doctor and the nurses to piss off when they told him to go home and get some rest. He didn't even talk to Mycroft when he came. John refused to leave the side of Sherlock Holmes.

What bugged John the most was the nightmares Sherlock seemed to be having. John was not the only one haunted. He often witnessed Sherlock having spasms of pain and screaming. He frequently screamed John's name during these fits.

"John! John! I'm sorry! John please! No!" Sherlock would yell. In response, John would grab Sherlock's hand and stroke his hair. He always seemed to calm down after that.

Sherlock finally woke up 3 days later.

_

"John?" Sherlock said.

John had his head on Sherlock's bed, his hand on top of Sherlock's.

"John." Sherlock ran a hand through the army doctor's hair, attempting to wake him.

"John."

But John had fallen asleep and was dreaming of his returned friend, finally not a nightmare.

Sherlock placed his right hand on top of John's, which was resting on his left.

He keeps stroking his hair and rubbing his hand until John suddenly wakes up. He bolts his head up and his eyes dart around the room until they land on Sherlock.

"What? Whats wrong?" He rushes.

"Hi John."

John gives the most sincere smile he has given since the day Sherlock "died".

"You're here." John whispers.

"Obviously." Sherlock says.

John chuckles.

"Well I certainly didn't miss that." John comments.

"Yes you did. You missed me. You cannot deny it."

"Shut up! You're ruining it!" John is smiling wider than ever and blushing.

"Ruining what?" But without saying another word, John hesitantly leans toward Sherlock and plants a soft kiss to his forehead.

-

Sherlock and John were soon back at 221B and things were almost the way they used to be.

Almost.

Thump.

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?" John was emptying the contents of a medicine tablet prescribed for 'Sherlock Holmes' into Sherlock's evening tea. John had to resort to this because Sherlock had decided to not take the tablets to help his leg and ribs heal. No, John didn't feel guilty. Yes, Sherlock will probably notice soon. No, John doesn't care.

"I need your help." John laughed so hard at this that when he was carrying the mugs to the sitting room where Sherlock was, he almost dropped them.

Then he saw Sherlock sitting on the floor with a pained expression.

And out came the mugs from his hands.

"Sherlock?!" He rushed over to him, hands feeling around Sherlock's body, searching for any wounds.

"What happened? Are you hurt? This is my fault I should have made you stay in bed I'm so sorry Sherlock-"

Sherlock smiled at John and laughed hard. Hard enough to make him wheeze and his ribs feel like they were crushed. But he just kept smiling at John kindly and didn't let his pain show through because John clearly was worried.

"What?" John was confused and panicked. "Whats wrong?" John finally understood.

"Could you get my crutches?"

"Sherlock."

"I know but I can't get them myself and I wanted to go read in bed but my DAMN leg is too damaged. I apologize for any inconveniences I may cause you-"

Sherlock stopped talking. John had one arm under Sherlock's thighs and another on his back.

"John what are you doing-"

John picked Sherlock up and carried him into his room.

"I'm helping you."

He set Sherlock down on the bed and Sherlock laid on his side. John sat down, for the detective was quite heavy to his surprise, and tried to catch his breath.

When he did, he patted Sherlock's leg (the one without 2 bullet holes in it) and tried to stand up. But before he could, Sherlock looped an arm around him and pulled him down so he was laying on his side, Sherlock's arm curled around his waist tightly, his back pressed against Sherlock's chest.

"No John."

"What are you doing Sherlock?"

"Experiment."

"Sherlock."

"John."

"Fine. Only if you sleep."

"Why?"

"You haven't slept in 4 days. And 5 minute naps don't count."

"But-"

"Ok then I guess I'll just leave then-"

"Fine." Sherlock mumbled into John's back.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Okay John."

"Okay?"

"Fine."

Sherlock held John just a little closer and they soon fell asleep easily.

_

John woke up and felt Sherlock playing with the hairs on the back of his neck.

John turned over and gazed into bright blue-green eyes and his eyes moved over a pale, muscular chest.

He could get used to this.

"Morning."

"Good morning John."

"How did you sleep."

"Better than usual. Tea?"

"No, I'll make it. You stay in bed."

Sherlock ignored John and rolled onto his back so he could get up.

But before he could move, he was trapped beneath John, who was straddling him.

"Sherlock."

"John."

"You are too stubborn for your own good."

Sherlock smirked and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

"I know."

Suddenly, Sherlock's mouth was on John's. John was honestly in shock, but soon moved his hands to Sherlock's waist. Sherlock flipped them over (slowly, he didn't want to hurt himself) and smiled into the kiss.

"What are you smiling about?" John got out in between quick, sweet pecks on his lips. Sherlock pulled back and looked down at John happily. His hair was sticking out in every direction, eyes wild but soft. Both of them were panting and hot.

"You."

John laughed as Sherlock crashed his lips back onto John's. John was hot. Waves of heat were enveloping his body. He gently pushed Sherlock back a bit so he could take off his t-shirt (both of their legs were still covered by the sheet) and turned back to Sherlock, who's eyes were wide and locked on the bed. Until John suddenly remembered the big ugly scar on his shoulder and realized the bed wasn't what he was looking at.

"I'm sorry." John said, pulling the sheet over the scar. Sherlock's eyes softened and he kissed John's lips again, working his way down, to his jawline, his neck, pulling down the sheet without John noticing. He moved across his collarbone and all the way over to the big ugly scar that reminded John of all he went through. Sherlock looked into John's eyes and bent back down to kiss the scar, over and over.

"You're not...?"

"John, your physical features are not what...attract me to you."

"Really? Most people who see are put off by it."

"Am I most people?"

Sherlock kissed John again and didn't break off until there was a small squeal by the door. Sherlock whipped his head around to see who it was, and met the eyes of a red, giggling Mrs. Hudson. He turned pink instantly.

"I'm sorry boys I was putting the tea on and came to wake up Sherlock and here you both are..." she gestured towards them and laughed harder, backing out of the room.

"Let me know when you're finished." She closed the door behind her.

Sherlock and John had never laughed so hard in their lives.

_

1 Week Later

After John went to the store that day, the detective and his blogger were sitting in the flat, Sherlock playing his violin (he could stand now, his leg was better than the week before) and John reading the newspaper and sipping tea. Mycroft had released the news of Sherlock's return and they couldn't leave the flat. John was nearly mauled by reporters and fans of theirs, but he managed to hail a cab and get away.

Sherlock stopped playing the piece he was composing and turned back to John.

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Did you mean it when you said you loved me?"

John nearly choked on the tea.

"What?"

"At my grave. The night I came back."

"You were there, weren't you?"

Sherlock nodded. John paused and looked up at Sherlock.

"Of course I meant it."

Sherlock crossed the flat, limping the whole way. John stood up to meet him eye-to-eye. Sherlock pulled him into a hug.

"I'm so sorry John. I thought you would never love me back. I'm going to say it now, because I didn't before. I love you John Watson." Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder.

"I thought I lost you Sherlock. It's not your fault. You did it to save me. And for that, I am so grateful. And Sherlock bloody Holmes, I love you. No matter what."

Suddenly Sherlock noticed his shirt was damp on his shoulder and he pulled away to look at John.

He had tears running down his face.

"Its okay John. We're together now. Don't cry. I'm not going anywhere. Neither are you."

John nodded and buried his face into Sherlock's shoulder and wept. Yes. Wept. They stood there for ten minutes, just letting John get out all the tears he held in while Sherlock was gone.

A few tears leaked out of Sherlock's eyes too. In this moment, he finally understood how much pain he had caused John.

He could fix this.

They could fix it.

Together. 

-

"Bored."

"Yes Sherlock. I know."

John sat at the small table, typing his blog, while Sherlock lay on the couch, brooding.

"Bored!"

John chose to ignore him this time and kept typing away, explaining what has happened over the last 2 weeks.

Suddenly, there was hot breath on his neck and a deep voice in his ear that sent shivers down his spine.

"Bored." Sherlock kissed John's neck and hugged him from behind.

"You know I'll never quite get used to that." Sherlock stopped kissing his neck.

"Well don't stop..." And Sherlock started again, trailing kisses down his neck and across his shoulder blades.

That is until someone cleared their throat. Sherlock turned around.

"Mycroft. To what do we owe the interruption?"

Mycroft scoffed and stepped in, having gotten their attention.

"Apologies. But there are more important matters right now other than...domestic bliss." Mycroft hissed the words like they burned his tongue. John could practically feel Sherlock's eye roll.

"Well do enlighten us, brother."

"Fine. There appears to be a problem that has arisen. Her name is Janine Moriarty." John's eyes widened. Sherlock and John exchanged a panicked glance.

Shit. John thought.

"Who?"

"Don't be dull John. The sister." Sherlock spat. "Its always the sister."

"Yes. Well, she's been making quite the mess lately. Since you came back."

"Its been a week."

"Brilliant observation." Mycroft sneered.

"Shut up."

"Oi! Enough. So you want us to find her and what..? Kill her? Find her? bring her to you? The police?"

"I want you two to find her and make sure she doesn't cause any more problems."

"Is that all?" Sherlock spat, crossing the room and snatching the file marked 'Moriarty, Janine' from Mycroft's slender fingers.

"Yes."

"Goodbye Mycroft." Sherlock shooed him out the door and closed it, but it was stopped by Mycroft's umbrella.

"Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock growled through gritted teeth.

"Do be careful. She's quite the character. Almost as bad as her brother."

"Yes bye now!" Sherlock kicked the umbrella out of the doorway and slammed the door in Mycroft's face, locking it behind him.

"Now where were we?" Sherlock moved towards John and planted a soft kiss on his lips, but it was soon broken apart.

"Sherlock. We just got a case. The most important one we've had other than Moriarty."

"She can wait. I can't."

"You're lucky I love you Sherlock Holmes."

"Indeed I am." Sherlock kissed him again, and this time John did not push him away.

They both slept incredibly well that night.

-

"What do you think she's doing here?" John whispered. They sat in the back seat of a rusty, broken down truck outside of an old warehouse near the water.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at John, blue eyes bright even in the terrible lighting.

"That's what we're here to find out, John."

John shivered and scooted closer to Sherlock so he was in the middle seat.

"Cold?" Sherlock asked, a smirk on his face as he looked out the window facing the water. John nodded, and even though Sherlock didn't see it, he laughed.

"Move over."

John did as he wished, looking out the window at the warehouse while Sherlock moved and rustled around the backseat shaking the car a bit. He heard Sherlock slide over and he felt body warmth, then a blanket. John looked down and saw Sherlock's coat aross their laps.

He smiled and pressed closer to Sherlock, and yet he didn't see, Sherlock still blushed.

-

John woke up to the sound of high heels clicking on the pavement. He lifted his head from Sherlock's shoulder and squinted at the light and the silhouette of a woman.

"Shit. Sherlock!" He hissed, trying not to draw attention to the car. Sherlock shot his eyes open and glared at John for a split second until he realized why he was awoken.

Shit.

They quietly climbed out of the car, careful not to make any sounds. The woman was about 100 strides away, depending on how fast she walked, as she sped up and slowed down frequently.

The men followed her, ducking behind different pieces of scrap and trash bins.

Suddenly, the woman stopped and a black limousine sped around the corner. She got in and they drove away at illegal speeds.

-

Sherlock was perched in his chair, almost squatting. His 2 nicotine patches were showing, hands under his chin.

"Sherlock," John called from the kitchen, inspecting the severed arm in the fridge, right next to a vacant milk carton, which Sherlock neglected to walk less than 2 feet to throw it in the bin.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied quietly, barely connected to the real world and lurking inside his mind palace.

"Why is there an arm in the fridge?" John asked, holding back a gag because of the odor coming from the limb.

"Decay experiment." he said bluntly. John rolled his eyes and walked across the kitchen and into the living room , huffing at Sherlock's answer.

"Can we get a separate fridge? I'm tired of having the butter next to a bucket of fingers!"

Sherlock went deeper into his mind palace, drawing out information for the case he was attempting to solve. John sat in front of him, hoping he would snap out of it and talk. He sat and waited for a minute, but he soon gave up and walked to their room, which they were now sharing.

John got ready for bed, not bothering to wait for Sherlock.

After about 20 minutes, John was drifting off.

-

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and looked around the room. Light was peeking into the room through the curtains and John was nowhere to be found. He knew he would be sleeping, so he stood up and went to the computer. As he opened it, he spotted the file of Janine Moriarty and picked it up, flipping through the folder and trying to gather some information he might have missed.

Which was unlikely.

"Hey you." John said in his ear. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his chair. Shivers ran down his spine and he turned his head so their lips were barely touching, like ghost kisses.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock whispered, as if they were about to be caught any moment.

John pulled out the chair and straddled Sherlock, blush creeping onto his cheeks when Sherlock looked down at his red pants.

"Tea?" John asked nonchalantly. Sherlock nodded and John gave him a peck on the forehead before making his way to the bedroom and coming out with his robe on.

Sherlock smiled and leaped from the chair, joining John in the kitchen.

"Any progress on the case?" John asked when Sherlock hugged his waist from behind.

"Mmm.." he said into John's neck.

"What was that?" Sherlock lifted his head.

"All I've gathered is that she's not working alone and there are 52 possibilities of why and what Mycroft needs her for." Sherlock said, burying his face back into John's neck. That was always the thing about John. He smelled good. No matter what time of day or where they were. Sherlock would sometimes stand closer to him because he smelled of cinnamon and cedar wood, with a slight hint of vanilla. He always associated that scent with the word "John".

"Only 52?" John asked, smirking and stirring his tea.

Sherlock kissed his neck softly, mapping out the curves and crevices of John with his lips, as if he were an explorer mapping out a distant sea. John shivered and spun around to capture Sherlock's lips with his own.

How odd it seemed, to have met this man three years ago, one shrouded in selfishness and loneliness, and now have him wrapped around him now, feeling like the most important person in the world to John. And he, undoubtedly, was.

They broke apart, lust burning like a pit in their stomachs, noses touching.

The tea went cold.

-

For weeks, Sherlock and John searched for Janine Moriarty. They found nothing, and Sherlock assumed that she ended up fleeing the country under a false identity. The two were taking small cases, just like they used to. They were better than ever, and John was finally happy again.

Like always, they were sitting in their chairs, Sherlock fiddling with his violin strings, John reading the paper. He looked up at Sherlock and thought about all the things that have happened in the past month.

"Okay, I'm ready."

Sherlock looked up, confused.

"What?"

"To know how you did it. How you faked your death." Sherlock smiled sadly and paused. He looked up at John with those same eyes that he was so precise with, so damn clever, and he spoke quietly.

"I didn't." He said. A tear rolled down Johns cheek. Sherlock stood up to wipe it away, though John felt nothing as he came into contact with his skin. Sherlock smiled. John tried to grab him, but nothing came of it.

Sherlock faded away, like clouds after a storm.  
-  
John awoke, clutching his sheets, lying next to Mary. Tears were on his face and he was shaking.

He wiped the tears away and looked at the photo of him and Sherlock, smiling, Sherlock's arm wound tightly around his shoulder and smirking down at him.

John whispered softly.

"I know."


End file.
